My Personal Kill-Bill Death List 5

Inspired by Beatrix's Death-List from Kill Bill, I have compiled my personal 'Death List 5'.

Staying true to the movie, I have limited my choices to 5. Note: This was difficult.


#1. EVIL Parking Attendant behind 'The Whiskey A Go-Go'
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I mouthed off to the parking lot attendant behind the historic Whiskey a Go-Go. I was regretfully rude, and for that, I apologized. But somehow, every time I went to a show at The Whiskey the same parking attendant was on-duty.

And after the unfortunate 'incident' the parking attendant always recognized me and I, him. And every single time, The Whiskey's Evil Parking Attendant gave me the WORST possible parking spot as his ongoing plot to punish me forever.


I get it, evil parking attendant, I was horrid to you. 


Karma's a bitch. But a some point even karma gets even. 


Rather than eventually forgetting me, you continuously tortured me by always giving me the tiniest, most impossible parking spot at the end of the lot. at the top of the hill. One time, I even begged you to help me pull out. You simply shook your head and said "No help. Liability". 


I was left sweating in the car waiting 'till 2:30 a.m for the parking lot to empty in order to pull out my '89 Hyundai Excel with a faulty stick-shift without crashing into the car behind me. 


So to you, Evil Parking Lot Attendant behind The Whiskey, I hope you die a horrible death in my hands. I hope that your hell be comprised of impossible to pull into parking spots and for you to continuously be stiffed of parking fees. 


#2. Bathroom Hoarder Bitch

The scene: an after-hours club in Hollywood. Me? Suddenly sick to my stomach. You know that terrible queasy feeling that sneaks up on you at the most inconvenient of times? That voice that says: "You are going to puke in 10, 9, 8, 7...." Yeah--THAT voice. I heard you loooouuuuud and clear!


I recognized the command of the horrid voice and darted towards the restroom, only to find an infinite line of women in various stages of club appropriate attire waiting patiently outside an impossibly tiny, single-stall bathroom. I signaled each girl in line with a mixture of gagging motions and a hand-chop signifying the urgent request "I am going to PUKE. I NEED to cut in line!" 


Each clubbing beauty recognized the greenish tinge on my face under the dark club lights and politely moved out of the way.


Except for the Bathroom Hoarder Bitch.  The voice in my head continued the puke-countdown,  "...3, 2, 1..." I jumped up and down, begged! I even managed to gurgle: "Gonna puke!!!". Bathroom Hoarder Bitch said: "No cutting" with a huge smile, and kicked up her heels while swinging her perfect brown straight hair, as she cunningly smiled over her shoulder and pushed herself into the single-stall bathroom. Leaving ME locked out.

Hot Chick at the Club COCK-BLOCKED me harder than a Stop Sign in Chinese wearing FANTASTIC designer shoes, uber-tight jeans and glorious hair.

The voice in my head, finished counting: "ZERO". And there I was. 


Locked outside of the single stall bathroom, holding my heaving body against the door of the locked bathroom. Holding back the tears of shame.


To you, the cunt who didn't let me use the bathroom in my most urgent time of need: I hope your late-night partying habits got the best of you! I hope you developed a ridiculous addiction to methamphetamine that impaired your sanity. Rather than an immediate death by my hands, I desire upon you, a slow and prolonged death at your own hands. By now, you would no longer have the ability to pay for designer shoes, because every penny you make you smoke in your little crack pipe. Your looks are gone and you have contemplated prostitution as a means to an end.


You deserve a long and slow death for all the bitchiness you spewed.


#3. Immigration Officials


You serve and protect a countries borders ensuring that the tourists do not pass enter your borders without paying tariffs for that brand new MacBook Pro that is actually a gift for grandma. Your job is serious. Your uniform, intimating.  Yet you take advantage of women who travel alone. Somehow you manage to single out the women traveling solo and request to inspect every bit and piece of their person, document and baggage.


I have been pushed to the side. To the "special lane" with see-through acrylic panes that are about 3 inches thick, with sticky floor pads. I have been interrogated in Spanish and French by Officials that obviously spoke English as a first language. You Immigration Officials have searched my every bit of clothing, as if that thong I have might be smuggling an illegal immigrant ,or as if my stiletto heel actually contains a kilo of heroin.

Why yes Officer, there IS a kilo of Heroin in my buttcrack!

And my make up. You have even threatened to empty out my perfume bottles and my moisturizer. You have asked me every question possible. I get it. I am 5 foot 2 and a 125 pounds, and very, very, very threatening in my 3 inch stilettos. But, please, why must you search me with that funky beeping wand that never stops beeping? Why, oh, my, must you search my bra, the inseam of my jeans and the pockets in my pants. You even lifted my sweater and went to town on my bra, with my body in it.


To you, Immigration Official who is honestly trying to cop a feel....ok, you got me. Now, I can't wait to judo-chop your neck, stab your eyeball socket with my stilettos, and slap your body into a bloody pulp with my machete slowly as I proceed to give you a Colombian Neck-Tie. Die a sorry death for grabbing girls goodies under the guise of protecting the borders.



#4. Iggy Pop


Iggy. You are a legend. You also promised to die on stage. You have been performing since BEFORE 1970. What are you, Keith Richards? Why, oh, why aren't dead? I don't hate you. I actually kinda like you. I have made many an effort to see your performances, you skinny freak. Well, I don't remember your music...I was just waiting for the freak show that somehow guaranteed your death. WHY? OH, WHY?  aren't you dead yet?????

Are you a cockroach? Why aren't you dead yet?

Since you can't seem to die on stage, let me do you a favor: Let me do it for you. Pick your preferred method of death. Drugs won't kill you. Glass can't kill you. Bad performances don't phase you. Kryptonite? Tell me, I will put you out of your performance misery. Please? And we can put you on a stage. And I can be there. 


And I can finally say: I SAW IGGY DIE ON STAGE!!!!


#5. Maria Elena


I hate you. I went to school with you before age 12. You ruined me for life. Every time I see a Latin Lindsey Lohan (pre-cokewhore days) look-a-like in a prep school uniform, I cringe. Even now, as I type your name, my skin crawls. 

Actually, now that I think about it, I am going to move you up to to the top of my list. In fact, I will delete all other 4 just to kill you five times.

Lindsey in the Parent Trap...I would rather hang out with you than Maria Elena!

It wasn't your picture perfect hair or impeccably pressed school uniform that did me in, it was your perfect evocation of 'Mean Girls'. Snide. Rude. Bitchy. Always flaunting your money, your 'good family', your trips to Europe and A grades. What really irked me was not how mean you were to me, it was how down right demeaning you were to everyone that wasn't part of your clique.  


You made fun of fat kids. Nerdy kids. Poor kids. Rich kids. Girls with boobs. Boys with acne. But that's normal for a stuck-up bitch. What really bothered me was how you while you put others down, they agreed with you! This of course, made me stomp my feet in frustration, holding back tears at my ripe-old age of 12 saying: "That's not fair!"


To you, Maria Elena, I know you married into the 'right' family. Good for you. You got your wish. But I hope you are so unhappy that your narrow-minded ways that your self-doubt keeps you awake at night. That your husband's infidelity plagues you daily. That fear of loss of the family fortune keeps you from playing with life and experiencing happiness. Actually, you are probably so miserable and you don't even know that you channel your insecurities through your children.


You know what? I don't want you to die. I hope that you live long unsatisfied life. And that the stick that you have carried up inside your ass since you were 11 years old causes you the worst case of hemorrhoids in the Americas. And in 40 years, when I read your obituary, I will laugh, LAUGH, at your sad, piddly existence. 


Alas, my Death List Five is done!!!!


I beckon each of you to gather your personal Death List. It is true a zen experience. Not only must you make the essential choices of WHO to add to the list, but HOW you get to kill each and every one of them.


Dear Quentin: Thank you for inspiring me with the gorgeous Beatrix' Death List. If only could look oh, so cool, in a sleek, yellow cat suit! 

Go Beatrix!!!

Love, 


Raquel